


I Wanna Get Better

by sarahmademedoit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: CPTSD, Chubby Harry Potter, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression, Flashbacks, Hermione is a good bro, Mind Healer Draco Malfoy, Muggles, Multi, Negative Self Talk, POC Harry Potter, Person of Color Harry Potter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ron is Doing His Best, Suicide Attempt, poor body image
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 20:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20414200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmademedoit/pseuds/sarahmademedoit
Summary: Harry breaks eye contact to stare at the floor. His knee has resumed its bouncing, this time so hard that his foot leaves contact with the ground and returns with a soft thwack. He shifts, pushing up the frames of his glasses with the palm of his hand. He sips his tea, now fully steeped and edging on bitter, to stall. When he chances a look, Malfoy’s eyes are still sharp and intense. Harry opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again.“I want to get better,” are the words which finally emerge. “At least, I think I do.”Healer Malfoy’s smile is kind, but not patronizing, which is not a small relief. “Well then,” he says, sitting back up with a small nod. “Let’s begin.”





	I Wanna Get Better

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAGS AND NOTES AT THE END 
> 
> All recognizeable characters and plot points are the property of J.K. Rowling & Co. Everything else is mine. As always, Sarah made me do it.

Harry pulls his sleeves further down his knuckles. He can feel the stitches tug at the skin of his forearms. His knee and foot bounce against the floor. For all his- enthusiasm is the wrong word, but for all his _surety_ about being here, his words have deserted him. All that’s left is silence, a somehow tangible nothingness between his ears.

He barely recognizes the man across from him. Gone is the haughty stare and platinum hair that Harry came to associate with the name ‘Malfoy’. In their stead, a patient, nearly kind face, hair that seemed to oscillate between carnation and lavender, and a muggle notebook and pen. Malfoy –_ “Healer Malfoy”, _Hermione’s voice corrects – isn’t even dressed in those fancy (pratty) suits of his youth. Muggle clothes now take their place. A light blue t-shirt, black skinny jeans, and black leather boots adorn his ever-slim frame.

Harry shifts in his seat, uncomfortable both at the thought of his own figure, which wasn’t exactly slim any longer, and under Healer Malfoy’s steady eyes. Harry opens his mouth to say something, perhaps a snide remark or an asinine comment about the weather. Nothing comes to mind. He closes his mouth.

Malfoy clicks his pen closed and sets both pen and notebook aside before rising slowly. Harry follows the movement with guarded eyes. His heart feels primed to beat an uneven rhythm out of his chest. The creepy-crawlies, which always linger in his gut, have spread across his whole body.

“Would you like some tea?” Malfoy’s voice is soft, lacking all his school-boy drawl.

Harry attempts to respond, but only a croak emerges. His ears heat as he clears his throat. Thankfully, Malfoy says nothing, only continues puttering about with the kettle. Harry tries again.

“Yes, please.”

“Is earl grey alright?”

Harry nods. When he turns around with a curious expression, Harry realizes that Malfoy couldn’t have seen his nod. His ears burn at the error. Once again, words escape him, so he nods like a dunce. Malfoy smiles a bit then returns to the kettle. The minutes pass in agonizing silence as the muggle kettle heats the water with a series of hisses, sighs, and gurgles. Finally, Malfoy pours the water into mugs and passes one over with a murmured caution. Harry accepts the mug and holds it with both hands, even though the heat is nearly scalding. He sips at it for something to do. It’s little more than brown stained water so soon after pouring.

Malfoy offers a small, lopsided smile as he sets his mug on the coffee table between them. The mug is massive, a porcelain monstrosity with the words 'World's Okayest Therapist’ emblazoned in black letters.

“Mister Potter,” Malfoy begins. “I feel it would be against my best professional judgement to sit in silence for the whole hour.”

Harry sips at his brown water again, noting with vague interest that it has slightly more flavour now.

“I can’t imagine that this is how you imagined your ideal Friday afternoon,” Malfoy says. He pauses, face twisting into something complicated as he brushes some hair behind his ear. “Frankly,” he says, “I’m not thrilled that the Ministry mandated you here either.”

That, at least, stirs something mean and angry in his chest. Malfoy carries on.

“I don’t agree with the Ministry mandating therapy on the whole. You aren’t unique in that regard, Mr. Potter. After reviewing the materials related to your circumstances, I agree that Mind Healing is the appropriate next step, but I’m also of the opinion that Mind Healing brings about the longest lasting results when patients _want_ it and chose it of their own accord.”

The knot of anger unwinds in Harry’s chest. His bouncing knee calms, if only a bit. Malfoy brushes his hair back again, nabbing a strand to twist around his forefinger.

“I also don’t agree with the decision to assign _me_ as your Mind Healer,” he continues on a sigh. Malfoy’s eyes are uncomfortably piercing as they bore into Harry. His tone is suddenly very sober as he says, “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Potter. I do not take lightly the responsibilities placed in my hands as a Mind Healer. To work with people in this capacity requires us to be extremely, and sometimes _painfully_ vulnerable. I’m sure you’ve a host of negative memories of me and my behaviour, some of which could be triggering to you.”

Malfoy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hair swings forward and for a flash he looks eerily like Sirius, who, Harry belatedly realizes, is Draco’s cousin.

“Nevertheless,” Malfoy says, “I’m committed to helping the people who find themselves in my office, regardless of their reasons or identities. If you can say in all honesty that you are willing to embark on this journey with _me_ as your Mind Healer, then I am entirely on board. If you have any reservations-- and you are _allowed_ to have reservations, Mr. Potter, I want to make that very clear.”

Malfoy pauses a moment, pewter eyes locked on his. Something in their depths softens as he continues in a more intimate voice. “If you are _sure_ about this, Harry, then I am committed to doing everything in my power to help you. The ball, as Muggles would say, is in your court.”

Harry breaks eye contact to stare at the floor. His knee has resumed its bouncing, this time so hard that his foot leaves contact with the ground and returns with a soft _thwack_. He shifts, pushing up the frames of his glasses with the palm of his hand. He sips his tea, now fully steeped and edging on bitter, to stall. When he chances a look, Malfoy’s eyes are still sharp and intense. Harry opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again.

“I want to get better,” are the words which finally emerge. “At least, I think I do.”

Malfoy’s smile is kind, but not patronizing, which is not a small relief. “Well then,” he says, sitting back up with a small smile. “Let’s begin.”

~

“So what’s it like, then? Sitting around for hours with _Malfoy_?”

Every line of Ron’s body screams morbid curiosity. At his side, Hermione tuts and elbows him in the ribs.

“Don’t pry,” she hisses, before turning her soft eyes on him. “Tell us if you’d like to, Harry, but don’t feel like you have to.”

Harry swallows, glancing away. He pulls down the sleeves of his sweater, hiding his knuckles in the soft fabric.

(Large, fuzzy sweaters are a new addition to his life. Healer Draco suggested buying and wearing clothes that made him feel safe, a silly concept until he tried on the fuzzy monstrosity on a whim. While Harry isn’t a fan of clothes nine sizes too big, one or two sizes for wiggle room never hurt anybody. With Healer Draco’s approval, he bought enough to last him a few weeks without doing laundry.)

The silence is back to buzzing in his skull. He pulls at the bottom hem of his sweater more firmly over the curve of his stomach, uncomfortable and fresh out of coherent thoughts.

(_Fat_, his mind hisses. _Fat, lazy, stupid, just like your cousin. You’re disgusting, worthless_.

_No_, he asserts. _Nobody’s body, size, or shape is a reflection of their character or worth._ His mind, interestingly enough, has no response to that.)

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice snaps him back to the present. He looks away from her eyes, which have gone too soft for his liking, and makes eye contact with her shoulder instead.

“It’s good,” he says when he finally remembers what they were talking about. “He’s good. Healer Draco, I mean.” When nobody says anything, he continues.

“We talk a lot about the Dursleys?” He doesn’t mean to phrase it like a question. Obviously, Hermione and Ron know who the Dursley’s are. Harry plows on. “A lot of my, uhm, trauma stems from those early years. Healer Draco is showing me how it provides a, er, a framework for a lot of my later behaviour.”

Hermione, bless her heart, nods along. Ron looks distinctly uncomfortable. The moment silence settles, he jumps in.

“Did you listen to the Chudley Cannons game?”

Harry’s smile feels weak and brittle as he plasters it onto his face. He follows that line of conversation, admitting that he didn’t. He doesn’t add that while the game was going on, Harry was dry heaving from anxiety in Healer Draco’s office. Harry’s come to understand that though Ron would support him, he would likely never be emotionally vulnerable enough (a new term, courtesy of Healer Draco) to engage in the nitty gritty of his healing.

Harry flexes his toes in his fuzzy socks (another Healer Draco approved addition to his wardrobe) and leans into the conversation. His laughter is slow to come, but it still feels like a victory when it does.

~

“Is it normal to not want to get better?” Harry blurts out.

Draco hums, fingers tapping the curve of his World’s Okayest Therapist mug. “I don’t know that I believe in normal,” he prefaces, “but is it common in individuals with chronic mental illness? Yes.”

“Why?”

Healer Draco’s face does that funny thing where his eyebrows flick up and his eyes blink rapidly. He strongly resembles a Muggle Rolodex resetting to the beginning – something which always brings a smile to Harry’s face.

“Well,” Malfoy says, “a lot of reasons. For most, the symptoms of one’s illness begin to become defining character traits in a way. When all you’ve felt for x number of years is empty, how else are you meant to describe yourself? So healing from trauma, moving into that new territory, can be terrifying.”

Harry nods, sagging in relief. He isn’t strange or crazy. Plenty of people feel the same way he feels. The anxiety boiling in his stomach settles to a hum.

“I, uhm,” he stumbles to a stop, pulls on his sweater sleeves. This one is an oatmeal-colored pile of wool that Andromeda said looked nice against his dark skin. Harry had chosen to accept the compliment, which felt like a victory. He takes a deep breath, drawing himself back to the present.

“I don’t remember what we were talking about,” he confesses. Draco tosses out some key words, never once mocking him for losing the thread.

“Oh!” Harry blurts yet again. “I remember! I go through these- I don’t know if _phases_ is the right word, but these times where I don’t want to get better. Where I just want to chuck myself off a building and be done with it. Even though I sometimes feel… better, I guess? I still panic because what if I get better and let people in and they see I’m a bloody awful person? So then I don’t want to get better, because even though I’m sad and alone and anxious and suicidal, at least I’m not an arse, y’know?”

Harry isn’t sure if any of that made sense, but Draco just hums in agreement.

“Absolutely. That’s not an unusual fear. That’s also unfounded.” Draco’s face softens into a wry smile. “I’m sure you don’t need reminding that I’ve been up close and personal with people for whom ‘bloody awful’ would be thinking too highly of them.”

His face morphs into something sincere. “I can assure you that never once did they try to better themselves. That you _don’t_ want to be a bloody awful person is a good indicator that you aren’t.”

Harry just nods. As he’s come to find, learning and believing anything about himself are two separate things. Still, he’s trying.

“Thank you, Draco.”

Harry’s voice is quieter than he intends. Draco smiles anyways.

~

Harry storms into the room and immediately begins speaking.

“I need him out of my house.” His voice is trembling. That doesn’t surprise him. Everything about him seems to be trembling, vibrating with energy and anxiety and a boiling mixture of emotions.

“I need him _gone_. I need him out of my house, away from me, I need a chance to fucking _breathe_, I need—”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Draco interrupts. “_Who_ do you need gone?”

“Teddy. My godson. I love him to pieces. Really, I do. I want to give him the whole world and a bit on top. But right now? I need him out of my house. I need him gone. I can’t have him around me anymore. I feel badly because I volunteered and I thought I was _ready_, and Andromeda made _plans_ but now I can’t fuckin’ _breathe_, and I- and I- and I-“

It occurs to Harry, somewhat distantly, that he isn’t making much sense. More pressing at the moment is the fact that his lungs have forgotten how to process oxygen. He heaves in breathes, still attempting to explain his situation.

“Hey, Harry, Harry, _Harry_,” Draco cuts in. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

Harry frantically shakes his head. Even the thought of someone touching his body has the creepy-crawlies of his anxiety covering every inch of his torso. He pulls his sweater sleeves hard, covering his whole hand in black wool.

“Okay,” Draco soothes. “That’s alright. I won’t touch you, but you need to breathe, Harry. Breathe with me.”

Harry latches onto Draco’s voice, desperately trying to match his breath to Draco’s rumbly coo. Though he slips back into hyperventilation a few times, Draco never scolds him (Hermione) or gives up (Ron). He knows he’ll regret that unfavourable comparison. Right now, he struggles to breathe. 

Harry doesn’t know how much time has passed before he feels like he can breathe properly again. The creepy-crawlies have returned to their usual place in his gut and the boil of anger, fear, shame, and unidentifiable _wrong_ have settled to something more manageable.

“Alright,” Draco finally says. “Let’s break this boulder into some more manageable pieces. What’s the current situation?”

Harry inhales, then releases a shaky sigh. “My godson, Teddy, is over for the week. And I was excited about it before he came and it was _fine_ at first, I was doing _fine_.” Harry cuts off, slamming his fist into his thigh in frustration.

Draco makes a wounded sound and reaches out with pale fingers before stopping himself. Harry can’t decide if he’s grateful or not.

“But now,” Harry continues. “Now I just want him gone. I’m exhausted, desperate for some time alone, and furious at myself for letting Teddy down.”

Draco nods in understanding. Silence settles over the room, and Harry isn’t sure how comfortable it is. Finally, Draco collects his thoughts.

“Harry, what you’re feeling is perfectly common. You’re burned out. I’m willing to bet it’s from tending to Teddy and _not_ tending to yourself. How accurate is that sounding?”

Draco pins him with a knowing look. Harry is too sheepish to hold it. He nods, his words not yet returned to his mind.

Draco speaks again, voice soft. “I speak from extensive personal experience when I say that my cousin is a lot to handle. He’s at a developmental stage where everything in his world is about him. Knowing that doesn’t make it any less exhausting.”

Harry’s surprise quickly fades. Of course – Tonks was Draco’s cousin, making Teddy and Draco related. Something in Harry protests at how little he knows about the people his own godson is spending time with. He tucks it away for later unpacking. He focuses on the moment, on the fact that he isn’t being hypersensitive or weak or whatever else his traitorous mind can convince him of.

Caring for Teddy is hard, and now he’s got the validation of his Mind Healer.

“What do you do?” Harry’s voice is quieter and smaller than he intends. He wonders, distantly, where all his supposed Gryffindor courage disappeared to. “When Teddy gets to be too much, I mean. What do you do? I want to be a good godfather, but—” Harry ends his question brokenly.

Draco nods once again. “Honestly? I sit him in front of a Muggle Disney film and take a long hot bath.”

An ugly sound related to a laugh escapes Harry. Draco chuckles along. “I know, I know. Is it the most enriching thing for him? No. Does it give me an hour and a half of relative silence and alone time? Absolutely.”

Another sound resembling laughter emerges from his lips. From what Harry can see out of the corner of his eye, Draco seems bolstered.

“Harry,” Draco continues, “you’re fighting a lot of battles within yourself. It’s okay to need more time than you did in the past. It’s alright to be gentle with yourself.”

Harry grimaces. It isn’t exactly easy to ‘be gentle with yourself’ when you know that you’re letting down your godson. When he says as much, Draco sighs heavily.

“Trust me, I know the feeling. But by giving yourself time to decompress, you’re setting a healthy example for Teddy. He’s plenty precocious. He’ll understand if you explain—”

“Explain what?” Harry doesn’t mean to snap. Now that he’s done it, though, he’s on a roll. The nebulous wrong feeling in his gut sharpens to rage. “Explain that his godfather is- is- is—”

“Is a man,” Draco cuts in gently. “Is a man, not a superhero, not a myth, not something untouchable. Is healing and taking care of himself. Is living proof that being vulnerable with one’s emotions isn’t weak, or unmanly, or anything to be afraid or ashamed of.”

The fight drains out of Harry so quickly it makes him woozy. He sighs weakly. It seems he’s been doing a lot of that lately. What Draco’s saying sounds so easy in the comfortable confines of this room. It’s less simple with a five year old chomping at your heels and cotton in your head. Speaking of his head – it aches, a pounding tightness that has been pressing against the interior edges of his skull since 10am yesterday.

He rests his head against Draco’s shoulder. He can smell the warm spice of Draco’s cologne, a heady scent that is immediately comforting and a bit arousing. Harry immediately shuts down that line of thought. He refuses to be the prat who falls in love with the first man to show him what emotional intimacy might look like. Is Draco attractive? Yes. Is he also immensely patient with the bullshit inside Harry’s head? Yes. That’s rather his job.

Despite knowing this, Harry sags further into Draco’s shoulders. He’ll sort out his feelings in the privacy of his journal and bedroom some other time. Right now, he closes his eyes and breathes in more of the heady cologne. Draco’s hand, warm and big, flutters to rest on Harry’s knee.

~

Harry stares over the edge of the building; tips his weight forward just enough to feel the morbid mixture of thrill and relief as he nearly falls to his death. He shouldn’t be up here. Somebody like him, fucked up in the head and a danger to himself, shouldn’t even be allowed atop skyscrapers. But Muggle London looks so pretty from above, and he figures if tonight’s going to be the night, he may as well do it where nobody knows his name.

(That’s the weird thing about wanting to die: eventually, even the knowledge that death is an option is like pulling on a favourite sweater. There’s a certain relief in knowing that with the rock of one’s weight, it can all be over.)

Harry sits on the edge of the building, letting his legs dangle in the air. It’s only a matter of time before the Confundus on the security guard wears off. He’s got to make the most of it while he can. He should probably feel guilty about using magic on a Muggle, and distantly, he does. He just hasn’t felt anything in days beside a baseline exhaustion and self-loathing, so forgive him if his own grey morality isn’t exactly coming up on the radar.

Before he can get too comfortable, a soft pop of displaced air sounds behind him. Harry immediately freezes, wand at the ready and breath silent.

“Harry? It’s Healer Malfoy.”

As if Harry wouldn’t recognize that voice across every dimension, in every life. For better or for worse, it seems that Harry James Potter and Draco Malfoy are connected.

Harry listens as Malfoy’s steps move towards him. He refuses to turn around, refuses to acknowledge the reality of the matter: he is broken, and useless, and _pitied_, and needs to be attended by a whole team of special doctors because he can’t work up the will to live. No. He’d rather stay in this moment, looking out at the Muggle skyline and pretending nothing exists but the view and his own existential musings.

“May I sit?”

Irritation floods Harry’s body. Fuck Malfoy. Fuck him and his stupid soft, ‘are you okay?’ voice. Can’t he just go away? Clearly Harry isn’t angling for company up here. Fuck it. Draco isn’t gonna leave anyways; he may as well sit. He waves to the edge next to him, trying to pour all his anger into a single flick of the wrist.

Draco descends to the edge of the roof, graceful as ever. He leans back against his palms. Harry turns his gaze back to the skyline. He can’t ignore Draco entirely. He can, however, pretend to ignore him out of sheer pettiness, so that’s exactly what he plans to do. He stares into the cool spring night and watches lights flicker.

His mind drifts, catching on one thought then moving to the next. _Fuck, but I’m tired_, he thinks. His eyes and nose burn in a tell-tale sign of tears as the thought sinks in. He’s tired, exhausted. He doesn’t even know what he’s tired from. He’s just tired of existing, tired of progress that feels like failure, tired of letting everyone down. Tired.

He swipes angrily at the tears. This is all so fucking stupid. What’s he got to be sad about? He _lived_. Hell, it’s in his title: The Boy Who Lived. He can’t seem to get away from living, even when he fucking dies, yet from his earliest memories he’s been flirting with the ultimate end. He ought to be grateful to all the people who died to ensure that he could keep living. He ought to be living for their memories. Instead, he’s bitter they wasted their greatest sacrifice on a selfish fool.

“Aren’t you meant to say something?” Harry snaps. “Tell me that ‘this too shall pass’ or some other utter bullshit?”

“Is that what you’d like to hear?”

Fury and hurt are boiling in his chest. He’s nearly nauseous with it. It’s the most alive he’s felt in weeks. He wants to fight someone. He wants to scream and snarl and throw his hardest punches – anything to keep this feeling alive.

So he does exactly that.

“Oh, fuck you,” he hisses. “Fuck you! You’re such a bloody prick, y’know that? How is it that the Death Eater Child Prodigy, the bloke who allowed all his Death Eater friends into Hogwarts itself, gets to live a normal life, but I’m left with a fucked up brain and a sob story? Huh?! How does the literal scum of the earth end up with the happy ending?”

But Draco robs him of his fight. Instead of screaming right back, he takes a deep breath, holds it for a while, then blows it out on a loud sigh.

“Scum of the earth, huh? You certainly don’t pull your punches.” 

Harry’s tongue shrivels on itself. The anger and irritation, which was only a moment ago pulsing through his veins, disappears. In its stead is a shame so strong it leaves him reeling.

“Draco,” he begins weakly. “I didn’t me—”

Draco holds up his hand to silence him. Something in Harry curls up and dies.

“Don’t apologize, Harry. I’ve certainly heard worse. Besides,” he sighs. “I think I’d know better than anyone that sometimes we need to give voice to our greatest demons before we can let them go.”

Harry turns back to the skyline, uneasy. “You’re really wise,” he finally decides on saying.

“Thanks,” Draco replies easily. “It’s the trauma.”

A sound that isn’t quite a laugh pushes past Harry’s lips, because fuck if that’s not relatable.

Harry leans back to mirror Draco, then slides all the way to his back. He wiggles a bit to smooth out the bunches in his shirt and make sure his stomach isn’t exposed (_Fat, stupid, lazy, weak_—_Shut up, intrusive asshole. I’m trying to fucking heal over here_) before settling. The concrete beneath him is cool, grounding. He spends endless breaths looking at the sky, enjoying the sound of planes flying overhead – something sorely missing from the Wizarding world.

“Y’know, I used to be fascinated with planes,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Guess I was always thrilled by the thought of flight.”

Draco chuckles a little bit. “They are amazing, aren’t they? After I finished my NEWTs, I disappeared into Muggle Canada for a little bit. One of the first things I did was research how the metal tube I took to get there stayed in the sky.”

They settle back into silence. Three planes pass before Harry speaks again.

“How did you find me?”

Draco sighs, this one somehow the heaviest of all. “A highly controversial tracking charm which would be illegal if you weren’t technically a ward of the state.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Well, fuck, indeed. If it’s any consolation, it only pings when you’re in danger of attempting or committing suicide. No need to worry about your privacy being invaded.”

“I wasn’t worried before, but I am now.”

Draco just laughs. “Yes,” he says. “That is rather the nature of anxiety, isn’t it?”

They lapse back into silence. Draco suddenly springs up. “C’mon,” he says. “We’ll go back to my place. You can sleep off your existential crisis there.”

Harry can’t think of any worthwhile alternatives. He can go back to Draco’s home and sleep there, or he can return to his own empty, lonely apartment where he’ll likely be tempted to reopen his stitches and end it for good this time. So he takes Draco’s proffered hand, and rises to his feet.

“To your place we go, then.”

A moment later, Harry’s feet have acquainted themselves with the ground. 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” a woman swears softly. Harry opens his eyes to find a tall, brown-skinned woman standing in a bathrobe and house slippers about five feet away from them.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” she says with a rueful smile and a distinctly not-British accent. Draco goes to her side, wrapping an arm around her waist. 

“This is my wife, Mora. She’s also a therapist, and a Muggle.”

She smiles warmly and holds out her hand. Harry holds out his hand numbly, barely managing to mumble out his own name. His mind is reeling, and it isn’t entirely from the rush of Apparating.

Draco Malfoy is married. Draco Malfoy has a wife. Draco Malfoy has a Muggle wife. Draco Malfoy has a brown-skinned Muggle wife. His shock tastes surprisingly light on his tongue.

“Sorry,” he starts. “I didn’t realize Draco was married.”

Mora waves her hand dismissively. “It’s totally fine. We don’t wear rings, and it's unlikely that I’d ever come up in conversation during a therapy session.” She pauses suddenly, eyes sharp considering the hour. “You are one of his patients, right? I didn’t make that up in a three a.m. haze?”

“No, I am!” Harry hurries to say. “I am, I uhm—” he looks to Draco for assurance, then continues. “I was about to make a poor decision. There’s a charm that notifies your Mind Healer if you’re about to make such, uhm, decisions, and he came to my aid.”

Mora smiles softly. Harry’s bizarrely grateful that it has no trace of pity or sadness it in. There’s just understanding and warmth in her gaze. Though there is no physical resemblance to Molly Weasley, something about her bearing screams, ‘Let me care for you. Not because you can’t, but because you shouldn’t have to.’

“I know Draco doesn’t care for the spell,” Mora begins, “but I do occasionally wish that we could bring it into our own therapy practises in Mugge-land. I can only imagine how many lives might be saved.”

Harry immediately likes her, if only for how straightforward she it. She doesn’t beat around the suicide bush – just gets right to it, and faces the situation head on.

“I told Harry he could crash here,” Draco begins. “I figure he can take the spare room.”

Mora nods her agreement immediately. “That’s what we have it for,” she says. “Here, let me get you some British penicillin and a cookie. Cookies always help.”

Before Harry can mount any protest, she’s slipped away down the hallway. Harry and Draco are left staring at one another.

“You’d best follow her,” Draco advises with a smile. “Once she’s decided to mother hen, there’s no stopping her.”

With a start, Harry follows Draco Malfoy’s Muggle, brown-skinned wife down an unfamiliar hallway to receive British penicillin (whatever the hell that is; likely a cuppa) and a cookie. Of all the ways he imagined his life to be in this moment, this certainly isn’t it. He can’t say he minds.

~

Harry wakes to light just beginning to peek through the curtains. He doesn’t wake in stages; so many years living with the Dursleys, forced awake and coherent at the slightest provocation, have robbed him of that luxury. Still, he lays in bed and lets his mind wander a bit before finally getting up. He pulls on his clothes from last night (early this morning?) and silently travels the hall to the bathroom. He feels more human after rinsing his face and swishing some water around his mouth.

He descends the steps silently, following the path he remembers leads to the kitchen. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Mora at the island. Her hair is in a single braid, draped across one shoulder. Her cinnamon skin and broad face could hail from anywhere, though something about the set of her eyes suggests Polynesian to Harry. But then, fuck if he knows. His own features have been known to throw people for a loop.

He clears his throat softly, and she looks up. Something in her expression tells him he wouldn’t have startled her, even if he hadn’t made any sounds.

“Tea?” she offers. He nods his agreement and she immediately moves to start the kettle – a completely Muggle one that’s plugged into the wall and everything. The automated beep feels loud in the silence. She returns to the island and slips back into her seat. After marking her place in her journal with unhurried movement, she looks to Harry.

They stare at each other for a while in silence.

Mora is the first to break their staring contest. “How’s this morning feeling to you?”

Harry licks his lips, looks down to his bitten fingernails. “Like a new beginning.” It probably sounds stupid. He decides to think of it as profound. Mora certainly nods like it is.

“That’s good,” she says. “New beginnings are good. Lord knows we need plenty of them.”

Harry nods his own agreement. He isn’t sure he believes in a god. He’s seen too much death, too much deceit and rage and needless suffering to consider an all-knowing being behind it all. But he does believe in new beginnings. It strikes him, suddenly, that he’s always ready to give others a million chances to make themselves anew. Rarely does he extend the same grace to himself.

“How did you two meet?” he asks. “You and Draco, I mean.”

Mora hums, and Harry suddenly wonders if all the little sounds Draco makes in their sessions are gestures he learned from his wife. 

“We met in Canada. That’s where I’m from. I was working and living in Toronto and we started working at the same practice. Then, a job offer came up for me here in the UK.” The kettle beeps, interrupting her. She gets up and begins pouring their tea.

“At first,” she continues, “Draco wasn’t crazy about the idea of coming here. So much bad blood and history, you know? I didn’t blame him, but I also wasn’t going to delay my career for him. We weren’t even married at the time. I was ready to let him go if it meant coming here. Thankfully, I didn’t have to make that call.”

Mora returns with their tea, pushing the sugar towards him with a small, conspiratorial smile. When he puts in three small spoonfuls of sugar, she grins like the sun. It suddenly isn’t hard to see how Draco fell in love with her.

“Anyways,” she carries on. “He decided to face his demons and come back to the UK. I was quite proud.”

“Telling our story, are you?”

Draco’s voice appears suddenly from behind Harry, and he flinches violently. His tea goes spilling across the counter. If it weren’t for Mora’s quick hands, her journal would have been ruined. Thankfully, she plucked it from the table moments before the scalding liquid destroyed the paper.

“Oh shit,” Harry says. “I’m so sorry! Is your notebook okay? Here, let me—” He reaches for the towels, but Mora slaps his knuckles smartly.

“Take a deep breath, Harry.” Her tone brokers no arguments. He does as she says, then takes another for good measure.

“You’re fine,” she continues. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You got startled. It happens. I’ll clean this up. It’s not a big deal.”

“But your notebook—”

“Is _fine_. Even if it wasn’t fine, property can be replaced. What matters is that you’re feeling okay.”

Harry goes to nod, then stops. Is he feeling okay?

No. No he very much isn’t. His heart is pounding an unsteady rhythm in his chest; his eyes keep flicking to the stove, despite the fact that nothing is on; he’s still waiting to hear Petunia’s shrill scream that he ought to be—

Oh. Of course. He’s having a flashback.

Harry runs a trembling hand through his hair. At Mora’s gentle hand to his shoulder, he sits back on his seat. Draco places a fresh cup of tea in his hands, and drapes a fuzzy throw blanket across his shoulders. He wonders, idly, when Draco left the room to get a blanket. He finds he can’t be bothered to care. The trio sits in silence as Harry’s body re-adjusts to the present. He isn’t at Number 4 Privet Drive. He’s in Draco Malfoy’s home, drinking tea, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. He’s fine. He isn’t in trouble.

When he comes back to himself fully, his tea has gone lukewarm. Draco waves his hand, and it’s piping hot once more.

Mora shakes her head. “So damn useful,” she sighs.

An ugly, not laugh is startled from Harry’s body. She grins that grin which dares the sun to outshine her. Draco’s eyes are concerned, but his body is relaxed. He’s wearing a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt and flannel pants. His hair looks closer to lavender today, and it’s casually slung in a low bun.

“You look like Sirius,” Harry says.

Something in Draco’s bearing changes. He sits down at the island, wrapping his hands around his mug. “My father always did mourn that I resembled my Black side more than my Malfoy.”

“Sorry,” Mora interrupts. “Your black side?”

“Family name,” Draco corrects. “Not ethnic background.”

Mora laughs lightly. “Right, ‘cause I was about to have to break something to him.”

Some unknown dam in Harry breaks.

He laughs.

He laughs until he can’t breathe, then laughs some more. He nearly tips out of his own seat, but still, he laughs. He can’t remember the last time he was so tickled, either by a single line or an entire situation. He’s sitting in the kitchen of his former arch nemesis, drinking tea, across from Malfoy’s Muggle wife, who’s currently cracking jokes about Malfoy’s race.

When he catches his breath long enough to sit up straight, he feels… lighter. Not like everything will magically get better; not as though all his problems have fled; not like his brain isn’t still fucked up, or like life still won’t be an uphill battle. He just feels… lighter.

When he looks back to Draco and Mora, they wear twin expressions of soft joy on their faces. It hits him suddenly that he isn’t upset at all that Draco’s married. He isn’t angry, or put-out, or nursing some weird jealousy that he can’t fuck his therapist. Instead he’s happy. It’s a soft, fragile thing, but he feels it, blooming in his chest as he looks at them. He hasn’t got his happy ending; not yet. But he’s coming for it. He’s coming for it, and Draco Malfoy, whose life seems to be perpetually entwined with his, has become an invaluable stepping stone to that.

Harry looks Draco squarely in the eye and levels his chin.

“I’m really glad you found Mora, and I’m glad you followed her back to Britain, and I’m glad you married her, ‘cause if you hadn’t a smarter bloke would have,” he says. “And I don’t think you’re the scum of the earth. I think I’m angry, and I think I’m sad, and lonely, but I also think that maybe things won’t be shit forever.”

Draco bites his lips, then says, smooth as butter, “So, you’re saying this too shall pass?”

Harry nearly chucks his tea at Draco’s face. He doesn’t. Instead, he laughs until he’s red in the face. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a tribute to myself and every other kid who grew up in an abusive household. We don't give what happened to Harry at the Dursley's nearly enough attention. That stops now. The affects of childhood trauma are no joke, and neither is this work. 
> 
> This is a *heavy* story. Harry goes through a lot in this one. He comes close to committing suicide twice in this fic (once off screen, and once on screen). Please be gentle with yourselves. I triggered myself once or twice writing this, so *please* be careful. Happy reading, and don't be afraid to leave comments.
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr:  
sarahreallymademedoit


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